One Perfect Knight Page 5

  "Indeed? And what is that one problem?"

  "There is only one such woman on this earth, only one woman who could be everything you have just described. And unfortunately, Your Highness, she is not free. For the only woman who matches your description is Queen Guinevere herself:"

  The king clapped Lancelot on the back and grinned. "I know, I know. I am the most fortunate of men. But I earnestly believe there lives a woman somewhere who will be to you what my dear Guinevere is to me. It is only a matter of finding her."

  Now Lancelot smiled in return. "Now, there's the difficulty."

  "Who knows? Perhaps, Lancelot, she will find YOU."

  Lancelot laughed, and the two men left the chamber together, discussing matters of Camelot, not noticing Malvern, who had been just beyond the door.

  He walked away alone in silence, hands clasped behind him, his dark head bowed in thought. And then, all of a sudden, he, too, smiled, a gradual, unpleasant smile.

  Lancelot opened the door, and at first he did not see her. For the briefest of instants, he thought she had gone, fled the kingdom, vanished.

  And then he saw her.

  Still in the comical attire, the strange blue trousers and the blouse, she was curled on his bed, sound asleep. He approached carefully, softening his steps so as not to wake her.

  How could he have mistaken her for a lad? In profile, her gender was perfectly obvious. Not only was her gender apparent, so was something else he had somehow neglected to notice fully.

  She was beautiful.

  Which, of course, could make her more dangerous. That is, supposing she had been sent by an enemy. As he watched her, the notion began to seem utterly ridiculous. What sort of enemy sends a woman alone to vanquish a kingdom? A woman could not possibly brandish such power, especially over men.

  Immediately, Helen of Troy came to his mind, but he brushed the thought aside as her eyes began to flutter open.

  For a few moments, she frowned in sleepy confusion, then she gasped and sat upright.

  "Good afternoon, George," Lancelot said.

  She turned toward him, and the alarm left her face. "Oh. Hello. How were things at the Crusades?"

  "The what?"

  "Never mind. Wait a few more centuries, and I'll explain." Her eyes took in the rest of the room, the late-afternoon slant of the sunlight. She was still in Camelot. It had not been a dream.

  And Lancelot was there, standing with a masculine confidence that was both wonderful and irritating. Then she noticed his left arm was holding something from her sight. "What's that behind your back?"

  "Aha. You are a woman."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Only a woman can detect the scent of a gift at twenty paces."

  "A gift?" She was unable to keep the pleasure from her voice.

  Without fanfare, he pulled a bundle from behind his back and handed it to her.

  "The king and queen are hosting a banquet tonight, and unless you wish to attend in your squire's costume, this is something for you to wear."

  "A banquet? And I can come?"

  He nodded.

  "You mean I'm invited to a banquet in Camelot?"

  "Yes, Yes. Of course. Now, open the gift."

  She looked up at him with a smile of pure pleasure, and an unfamiliar sensation gripped him. Perhaps it was the color of her eyes, like emeralds. Or the gold of her hair. He pushed the matter from his mind as he watched her untie the present.

  The buff brown cloth unfolded to reveal a gown. It had been no hardship for him to find it, for he knew the best seamstress in all of Camelot, and it was really a small matter to…

  "Oh," she sighed as she held it before her. He hadn't really examined it, but as the rich green velvet caught the light, as the golden belt glittered, he had to admit it was a most lovely gown. Unusual, the seamstress had said. It would take a woman with a rare figure to do it justice.

  But the moment he saw it, he knew it would fit her perfectly. He hadn't anticipated the color, however. Now that he saw the gown against her skin, he knew. It was, indeed, perfect.

  "And the slippers are there as well," he added. "In the same velvet."

  "Oh," she repeated. It wasn't said as a word but as an emotion.

  Suddenly, he was embarrassed. "I'll leave so you can get dressed," he said gruffly, realizing that he should leave but wanting very much to stay.

  "Thank you," she said, and she reached for his hand. He stepped away, and her hand fell back against her side, and then she clutched the dress again. "Thank you so very much."

  "You are welcome." He had begun to walk away, then stopped. "I have forgotten. What's your real name again?"

  "It's Julie. Julie Gaffney."

  "Very well, then. I must see someone now, but I will return within the hour, Lady Julia, to escort you to the banquet."

  She beamed, and he gave her a slight half-bow and left.

  "It's really just Julie," she whispered to the closed door. "But Lady Julia will do nicely."

  Touching the gown, she smiled. She was just beginning to feel like a Lady Julia.

  The queen smiled as her long strawberry-blond hair was brushed. It fell down her back like a great wavy mane, heavy and glorious, reflecting the light that streamed through the windows.

  "Mmm," she sighed. "That feels wonderful."

  He ran his hand over her hair with tenderness, then lifted a strand to kiss it, his eyes closing.

  "Guinevere," he said softly, plainly.

  The brush dropped, forgotten, as she turned to face him. Although she was tall for a woman, he towered over her, his strong arms encircling her with strength and passion.

  "We should not," she admonished. "Not here, in the middle of the day. We will be caught."

  I don't care."

  "My reputation will be ruined," she added coyly.

  "But think of how much fun we can have on the road to ruin." His teeth bit lightly on her earlobe, and her knees weakened.

  And she was lost. All notion of decorum vanished as if it had never existed.

  They didn't hear the knock on the door.

  When the knock was not answered, the door flew open.

  "Your Majesty," stammered the knight in the doorway.

  The king looked up from his wife, her shoulder exposed as she reclined in his arms, her eyes still clouded with desire.

  "Damn it, Malvern! Can't you knock? The queen and I are engaged in a private conference!"

  The knight blushed, and the queen planted a kiss on Arthur's cheek. "Later, my dear. We will continue our conference later. Perhaps at our magical tree."

  The king chuckled. There was an old oak tree just beyond the castle grounds, and it was there they had first shared tender words, first declared their passion. And through the years, that ancient tree still held a special enchantment for them. No matter what had transpired before, simply being at the tree always seemed to restore their love. "I will hold you to that, love. We will pick up exactly where we left off, at our tree."

  She smiled and scooped up her silver brush. With a nod toward the knight, she left the room. Both men watched her intently..

  "The queen is a beautiful woman, Your Majesty."

  "I know it, Malvern. Now, what brings you here at this unnatural hour of the day?"

  The knight did not reply at first, and the king, who had wandered over to a desk and begun to survey some documents, looked up. "Well?"

  "I do not know how to begin, Your Majesty."

  "Just begin."

  "This is not a pleasant task. I do not want to say what I have to. Yet I must. I cannot let you be made a fool of. It must end."

  The king regarded the knight with mild amusement. He had never been able to warm up to this young man, not at all. There was something dark about him. Arthur could not identify the problem precisely, he simply knew he did not feel comfortable with this one knight. The others he would trust with his life. But Malvern, he was different.

  "So I am being made a fool?" The king c
rossed his arms. "I am king. Many times I am made a fool, Malvern. Now, run along and be a good knight."

  The younger man's face reddened.

  He was always treated like this, by the king, by the other knights, even by the lowly pages and squires.

  Malvern the joke. Malvern the only knight who was undeserving of the rank.

  Well, soon Arthur would stop laughing. Soon everyone would stop laughing.

  "I have every reason to believe, Your Majesty, that the queen is being unfaithful to you."

  There was a silence in the chamber so fraught with tension Malvern thought the walls themselves would begin to tremble. For a moment he was afraid. Had he gone too far? Should he have waited until his plans were further developed?

  But that had been the very point of this meeting, to plant the seeds of his scheme, for the king himself to observe every well-laid step.

  Malvern swallowed, watching the unreadable expression on the king's face. Suddenly, the king emitted a horrible, lionlike roar.

  It had started now. There was no way to take it back. The process had begun.

  What had he done?

  Fear such as he had never known gripped his stomach. The knight was about to turn on his heels and flee when he realized what the unearthly sound was.

  The king was laughing.

  It was a hearty, full-throated laugh, his head thrown back, his massive shoulders quaking.

  Malvern stared for a moment, uncertain what he should do.

  The king's laughter subsided, but he was still smiling. "Thank you, Malvern. That was the best entertainment I have had in many a day. I cannot wait to share it with the queen. Now, off with you. I have some business to attend to."

  Malvern did not move. His eyes shifted uneasily, his hands tightened at his side.

  "That was not a jest, Your Majesty. It is the truth, although I am loath to say it. The queen has been unfaithful, and she continues to be unfaithful."

  The good humor left the king's features. "You speak treason."

  "No, no! I only wish to spare Your Majesty further injury!"

  The king glared at the knight. He had never liked him, never trusted him. Even listening to the falsehoods dishonored both Arthur and his wife.

  Something caused him to press on.

  "And with whom is the queen committing this vile crime? Are there many, a few, or just one?"

  Malvern hesitated. This was it. Once he said the name, his own life would be in jeopardy. He risked losing everything.

  Yet there was no choice. It was intolerable, living like this, being the object of ridicule amongst other knights, amongst everyone. He could no longer exist on the bottom rung. He was born for greater things, and only by bad luck and simple injustice had he been placed in this position.

  It was nothing more than simple injustice, and nothing less. If he proceeded with his plan, the injustice would be set right. The wrongs would be corrected. Yes, some people would be forced to suffer. But had not Malvern been suffering, too? Was it not better to rectify an injustice than to let it continue?

  "The queen is being wooed by a man much younger than Your Majesty and, if I may unfortunately add, a man much fairer of face. It is a woman's nature, I have noticed, to be swayed by virile youth and callow boasting."

  "Give me the name."

  "I do not wish to, Your Majesty. I simply wish to warn you, to alert you so that you may see the evidence yourself."

  "Give me the name."

  "I do this under duress."

  The king said nothing, but his expression was far more eloquent than any words. Malvern transferred his weight from one foot to the other, a slow, halting motion.

  "Lancelot," Malvern said, unable to keep the venom from his voice.

  "Lancelot?" The king was incredulous.

  "Yes, Lancelot. I have seen them together. He looks at her the way a hungry man looks at a wellroasted joint of meat, and ..."

  "Enoughl" The king held up his large hand. The knight was silent. "Be gone now, Malvern. I have work."

  "But Your Majesty, let me…"

  "I said be gone," the king said wearily. "Be gone."

  Malvern thought of what he could say, something damning that would help to hang Lancelot. But he could think of nothing just then. Before this conversation, he had carefully listed his options, ways in which to respond to any anticipated outcome. But he hadn't counted on this reaction. None of his cobbled responses would work.

  This was not what he had expected.

  Bobbing a small bow, he left the king, pausing just outside the door, wondering if he could hear anything. But there was nothing but silence. So Malvern, his shoulders rounded in defeat, walked away.

  Inside the chamber, the king sank into a chair, the state papers forgotten now, and stared into space.

  * * *

  Chapter Five

  Julie smoothed her hand over the dress, savoring the incomparable texture of rich, slightly irregular velvet. The very fabric of the emerald gown possessed a special quality, an indefinable element missing from anything mass-produced or synthetic. She closed her eyes with pure pleasure, inhaling the scents, so strange and new, that surrounded her.

  She was there, in Camelot, awaiting Sir Lancelot himself to escort her to a banquet.

  Of course, he was busy at the moment. This knighthood business really took far more time than most people realized.

  Her hand slid luxuriously up from her thigh, past her waist and the gold netting, skimming her arm, and then to her mouth, which had spread into a delicious, delighted grin.

  She was really there, in Camelot, feeling more Alive than she had ever imagined possible.

  There was a full-length mirror in the corner of the chamber, and she had stood before it moments earlier in wonder, reaching out to touch the image of the woman there, tracing the carved frame as if daring anyone to deny the vision. It was she, of course, Julie Gaffney. Yet it was a Julie Gaffney such as she had never imagined, never even dreamed possible.

  For before her was a pre-Raphaelite beauty, slightly misty in the cloudy, flawed mirror. Her hair seemed to be made of something ethereal, a goldenhued crown that surrounded her, cascading past her shoulders, perhaps a full eight or ten inches longer than she had remembered it being.

  The dress hugged her every curve with wanton perfection. Had her figure always been so? Certainly, she had felt less than dazzling at the health club, or in a swimming suit, or even in an evening gown. For the first time, she couldn't find at least a dozen aspects to change or wish for a giant eraser to eliminatee some lines and add a few others.

  There was nothing she would change, not now.

  It was her face that most surprised her. Although her features had always been regular, they had seemed unspectacular, like an uninspired yet competent rendering. As most people had commented, her face was pleasant. But something had changed, the artist had finally been inspired or the brush was of a higher quality, for she was nothing short of radiant.

  "Lady Julia." The familiar voice was low, yet her eyes opened.

  There he was, Sir Lancelot, standing in the doorway, an unearthly vision of medieval splendor. His blue tunic-another one? she wondered-was a deeper shade, a velvety midnight. The boots seemed more polished, his hair less tousled.

  The expression on his clean features reflected the feelings she herself had experienced when she gazed in the mirror. He saw it, too, this change. He, too, was awed by the transformation.

  "Lady Julia," he repeated. The tone of his voice sent a shudder up her spine, a thrill. "You are ..." he began. Then he shook his head and rubbed his eyes with his hand as if suddenly weary. "I need to know something."

  "Yes?"

  "Who sent you to Camelot?"

  That was not what she had been expecting, hoping for him to say. "Who sent me?"

  "Yes. I need to know, as will the king."

  "I… well." She twisted her fingers. "I don't know."

  His expression did not betray any emotion. "
You do not know?"

  "This sounds impossible, but it's true. One moment I was, well…" How could she describe a theme restaurant and a children's birthday party? She cleared her throat, grasping for words. "I just seemed to appear.

  His eyes narrowed. "In my weapons room?"

  "Well, yes. As a matter of fact, yes."

  "And from what kingdom do you hail?"

  "I'm from New York, in the United States." There was no recognition on his face. "Of America."

  "And where be this kingdom?"

  "It's across the ocean. Way, way far away from here. In fact, it hasn't been discovered yet. At least, I'm pretty sure it hasn't been discovered. A Viking or two may have rowed over, but. .: "

  " If this kingdom has yet to be discovered"-he nodded wryly on the last word "then how can you know of its existence, much less claim it as your native land?"

  "In all honesty, this is the strangest part of all." Suddenly, she felt like an errant child explaining a broken window. Even to her own ears she sounded unconvincing. "You see, Sir Lancelot, well. You see, this is going to blow your mind. Really. As incredible as it seems…"

  "Yes?"

  "I am from the future, from about, whoa-let's think about this." She gazed into space, counting off the centuries with her fingertips.

  Lancelot simply watched her as she spoke, then slowly, with great deliberation, crossed his arms.

  "Wow," she said at last with a sheepish smile.

  "I'm from about fifteen hundred years from now. Give or take a half century."

  He did not respond. He did not even blink. Had she not seen him move earlier, she would have sworn he was inanimate. Finally, he closed his eyes. "The blow to your head has addled your mind."

  "No! I'm absolutely serious!"

  "Come," he looked at her quizzically, as if she were a specimen under glass. "We will not speak of this until later. Perhaps then your senses will return."

  "You don't believe me."

  "Lady Julia," he said plainly. "You appeared in my weapons room dressed as a boy. You were knocked on the head, and I discovered you are not a boy but a woman fully grown. Then you claim to be from a thousand years in the future. Would you believe such a tale, under such circumstances?"